


Whose Line Is It Anyway?

by GatesKeeper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Actor Dean Winchester, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26171590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GatesKeeper/pseuds/GatesKeeper
Summary: When you meet your soulmate, the first words they say to you appear on your skin.The problem? Actor Dean Winchester has been signing autographs all day and has no idea who of the hundreds of people he's talked to is responsible for the "Thank You" scrawled across his wrist.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 53
Kudos: 673





	Whose Line Is It Anyway?

One of the tomatoes slips out of the burger Dean is hastily shoving into his mouth, but he figures that’s no real loss. “You have autograph signings in 15 minutes,” Charlie informs him, scrolling through his schedule on her tablet. “And it’s all the way in C Hall.”

“Food first,” Dean insists, already gesturing for the paper carton that Charlie had sneaked several fries from. Charlie narrows her eyes at him and pointedly steals one more before sliding the container over.

“I know you’ve got parental issues, but you should really thank them for that metabolism, my dude. Other celebs actually have to go to the gym and stuff when they eat like that.”

“You say that like you don’t regularly come to _my house_ and eat a whole gallon of _my ice cream_.”

“Only when we watch The Lord of the Rings: Extended Edition,” Charlie protests. Dean waits, wiping mustard from his chin. “OK, and on MCU marathon nights. But you can’t _not_ have ice cream when Tony dies. It’s comfort food.”

Neither of them mentions that Dean doesn’t like Rocky Road anyway and buys it specifically for her in the first place.

“Eight minutes,” Charlie reminds him.

“Fine. Let’s move.”

If there is any place it’s hard to navigate quickly, it’s Comic-Con—especially if you are Dean Winchester, whose claims to fame include two Oscars, a recent music release, and once stopping a mugger who assaulted a group of teenagers in downtown LA.

He had been working on Deadpool at the time and his publicist, Crowley, had a field day spinning that one. “Actor a Hero in Film & Real Life,” one particularly laudatory article had read. Sam framed a copy like the embarrassing little brother he is. Dean tossed his away and ordered groceries on delivery for two weeks until the media’s attention turned to _“Who Wore It Best: Bela Talbot or Anna Milton?”_

Now, with four minutes left to make it clear across the convention center, Dean dodges a group of girls dressed as the Sailor Scouts, pretends not to hear a Darth Vader asking for a picture, and narrowly avoids running into a vendor selling popcorn in Tardis-shaped boxes. A security guard with messy, dark hair is obviously struggling to get into Hall C, too, while pushing a loaded dolly. Most likely, these are presents given to celebrities by fans—to be stored, or perhaps, searched in case they contain anything dangerous.

“Thank you,” the security guard rumbles, face mostly hidden behind the boxes, when Dean opens the door for him.

“And…you’re five minutes late,” Charlie points out, also slipping in ahead of him.

Luckily, his fans don’t seem to mind.

The line to meet him is long and winding, the buzz of excitement in the room like coffee being shot directly into his veins, chasing away the knowledge that he woke up at 4 o’clock that morning to memorize lines before his first panel. “So,” he grins as the people cheer, spinning a Sharpie in his hand before uncapping it. “Who’s up first?”

He signs his name until his fingers cramp—on t-shirts, photographs, across someone’s bicep for a tattoo—all while trying to make the most of the approximately 30 seconds he has with each fan. Some manage to rattle off an entire story about the difference he—or one of his characters—have made in their lives in that time. It seems impossible that reading some lines in front of a camera could accomplish much of anything, let alone help someone come out to their parents or start a new career—but Dean’s heard it enough that he figures it must be true. Others, obviously more nervous, don’t say anything beyond sincerely stuttering “Thank you”s, so he just smiles reassuringly at them.

All in all, it’s shaping up to be a good day—but a pretty standard one as far as conventions go.

That’s when the girl in front of him _shrieks—_ loud enough that he thinks he’s going to have to get hearing aids a couple of years earlier than he would have otherwise.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the teenager sputters as everyone in the hall turns to look at her—including a couple of security guards who had been lingering at the corners of the room. Her eyes flick to Dean and then down at the floor. “It’s just—I follow you pretty closely and—I didn’t realize you’d met your soulmate, is all.”

“What are you--” And that’s when he sees it. Dark and curling letters along the underside of his wrist—words that were definitely _not there_ when he took a shower this morning.

“Holy soulmark, Batman!” Charlie gasps at his side, which is apparently the signal for everyone in the room to start talking again—the noise like a dozen TVs that someone is turning up, up, and up.

“I—I don’t—” Dean’s holding out his wrist like it’s bleeding, his breathing shallow.

Apparently sensing that he's about thirty seconds away from a full-blown panic attack, Charlie climbs onto the seat next to him to put her above the crowd.

“We’re ending this now!” she announces, attitude every bit the Queen of Moondoor. “Look for an email with a rescheduled time for later on in the con. If we can’t make that work, we’ll arrange for refunds. I’m sure you guys understand.”

Oh, they _understand_ all right. Dean Winchester just met his _soulmate._ The murmurs resurge and a few—hundred—people reach for their phones excitedly. Very few actually leave the hall.

“I don’t know who it is,” Dean finally gets out when his friend clambers back down, his voice cracked down the middle like an earthquake ran through it. The two words that suddenly appeared on his skin and are now a part of his body _forever_ (which means more time in the makeup chair, goddammit) are absurd, laughable. “Thank you,” they read, mockingly, like he hasn’t heard that every other minute today.

 _Of course,_ he’d lose the supposed love of his life before even learning their name.

“Dean, Dean—” Charlie demands his attention, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “Less existential crisis, more problem solving.”

“Yeah, well, my usual problem-solving method is to add whiskey so—?”

“Whoever it is probably got their soulmark at the same time, right? We can put up an announcement on social media and--” Charlie catches the look on his face. “No, you’re right, that would be--”

“A clusterfuck.” Hundreds of people all claiming to be his ‘one’, showing up with fake marks, knowing he doesn’t remember who it is anyway. Not to mention, there’s a good chance that anyone who he’s meant to be with wouldn’t speak up at all—too creeped out by all the attention.

This is messed up, is what it is. Dean has always, _always_ been able to sense when people are going to be important in his life. Charlie was practically his little sister from the moment he met her while anonymously playing D&D online. Benny—well, Benny was fuckin’ stupid to be on the Cowboys side of the field while wearing a Rams jersey—but even as they were yelling at each other and waving foam fingers in each other’s faces, Dean knew that they would become tight. Even Cassie, his ex, just had something about her that let him know she was going to be more than a one-night stand from across the bar.

So, what was up with his _soulmate_? Shouldn’t Dean have felt—a connection or something? Shouldn’t his wrist—or his heart—or hell, even his dick—have felt all tingly? Really—What. The. _Hell._

Meanwhile, Charlie is talking to someone—the messy-haired security guard, it looks like—dragging him over to where Dean sits with his head in his hands. “This is Castiel,” she introduces. Dean grunts, rather than looking up, though from this angle at least, he can see the guy’s got nice hands. Big. Long fingers. No words on _his_ wrist. “There’s a camera set up right behind us with a pretty good angle on the autograph table. He’s agreed to let us look through the footage—see if we can’t spot when your mark appeared.”

That’s actually—not the worst plan he’s ever heard of.

“Come on, Cinderella,” Charlie cheers, attempting to drag him to his feet despite having the muscle strength of a bendy straw. He lets her pull him up anyway.

He’s about to argue that he’s totally not a Disney princess. He’s Flynn Rider if anything (who he only knows about because of his niece, shut up) when his gaze finally skims up from Castiel’s hands _—_ over the way that his strong chest fills out the light blue button-up shirt he’s wearing to _—oh_ … _Oh…_ the most insane eyes he’s ever seen. Blue. Like lightning over the ocean. Gaining in intensity the longer they look back at him.

But _._

Dean glances at Castiel’s bare wrists again and his pulse stutters. Can he be wrong about this? God, his real soulmate is gonna kill him for perving on this random dude five minutes after—

 _Wait._ Castiel—is he—is he smirking at him? He _is,_ the motherfucker.

Not only that, he’s reaching out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced,” Castiel whispers in his gravel-gargled voice. And, suddenly, Dean remembers that he hasn’t _said_ anything to him yet. Not even when he opened the door earlier. And now he’s just been staring like an idiot.

Slowly, Dean reaches out to shake the other man's hand—ignoring the way the rest of his body is already shaking—twisting his grip as soon as they are palm-to-palm so that Castiel's wrist is face up.

He’s terrified—and the other man seems to know it because his smirk settles into a soft half-smile that should be illegal, Dean swears. The actor takes a breath. “Heya, Cas,” he whispers—and to his surprise-not-surprise, each letter appears just as he says them.

“Hello, Dean,” his soulmate responds.

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone survived watching the trailer? So many people are writing fantastic codas already--but they're making me a bit sad--so I bring you fluff. 
> 
> Also, it should be noted, I was supposed to attend my first Supernatural con last weekend, which obviously didn't work out, so sorry if I described the experience wrong.
> 
> If you like this work, consider checking out my Soulmate/Celebrity AU WIP:  
> [Famous Last Words](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25074931/chapters/60737890)
> 
> Or some of my finished stories:  
> [Meet Cute](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22384300?view_full_work=true)  
> [Rumor Has It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24030730/chapters/57819565)
> 
> Want someone to chat with about Supernatural? I'm [@_GatesKeeper on Twitter](https://twitter.com/_GatesKeeper) and [Gates_Keeper on Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gates-keeper)


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